


The Devil Went Down to Georgia

by Hotel_Denouement



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:18:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotel_Denouement/pseuds/Hotel_Denouement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A writing exercise project that novelizes scenes featuring Daryl Dixon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daryl's Debut ("Tell It to the Frogs")

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a personal writing exercise I've started. What I often like to do when I'm interested in writing a fanfic but can't seem to get a grip on how to write a certain character, I like to try to get a handle on that character by novelizing scenes from the canon involving that character. It's really fun and great practice!
> 
> THIS CHAPTER: Daryl's debut in the third episode of season one, "Tell it to the Frogs."

As the group catches their breath, the brush begins to crackle, and they immediately tense. Andrea ushers Amy further away nervously as the men raise their weapons, eyeing the source of the rustling. It’s definitely footsteps on underbrush. Someone is coming, another walker, perhaps, following the scent of the first.

A man traipses from the green, his gait determined but easy and definitely human. He falters just slightly at the sight of Shane standing before him, staring at him down the barrel of his gun. The group heaves a collective sigh of relief and Shane lowers the gun with a quiet grumble.

The relief is short-lived.

“Son of a bitch!” the newcomer curses, ducking out of the woods. “That’s _my_ deer!” His drawl is unpleasantly familiar.

Judging from the apprehensive glances the group shares with one another, this must be Daryl Dixon. The resemblance is there, but not uncanny—this second Dixon brother is slighter than Merle, smaller with muscle that is leaner than it is bulky. He’s pale but reddened and faintly, unevenly tanned by the sun, with blonde hair darkened with sweat. He’s a mess, wearing tattered, dirty jeans and a filthy brown muscle shirt that looks stapled and tied together at one shoulder. A knife hangs in a sheath at his hip and looks like it’s always belonged there, with or without the apocalypse, and he clutches a lethal-looking crossbow in callused hands.

Daryl stalks towards the fallen walker, disgusted. “Look at it, all gnawed on by this _filthy_ —” he punctuates with a vicious kick to the corpse, “ _disease-bearin’_ —” another frustrated kick, “ _motherless—_ ” again, “ _poxy bastard!_ ”

“Calm down, son,” Dale says tiredly, clearly accustomed to this sort of behavior from Daryl. “That’s not helpin’.”

“What do you know about it, old man?” Daryl snaps, circling around the dead thing to stomp over to him. Shane bars him from Dale as Daryl gets in his face. “Take that stupid hat and go back to _On Golden Pond!_ ” He turns away with an irritated huff, returning to his kill and setting about yanking the arrows from its side.

“Was trackin’ this deer for miles,” he grouches. “Gon’ drag it back to camp, cook us up some venison. What do you think, think we can cut around this chewed-up part right here?” He gestures hopefully at the massacre the walker had made of the deer’s throat, looking up at the others for their opinion.

“I would not risk that,” Shane says regretfully.

“’S a damn shame,” Daryl sighs, abandoning the deer and straightening up. He gestures to the rope that hangs over his shoulder to the group. Several dead squirrels are strung along it. Daryl’s attention stops on Rick for a split second, recognizing him as a newcomer, before moving on. “Got some squirrel, ‘bout a dozen or so. That’ll have to do.”

He looks down at the walker’s severed head, which twitches and snarls.

“Oh God,” Amy stutters in horror. Andrea herds her away.

“C’mon, people, what the hell,” Daryl says impatiently, aiming his crossbow at the head. He pulls the trigger and nails the thing right in its rotted-out eye socket. He pulls the arrow free, unbothered. “’S gotta be the _brain._ ” He strides proudly past Rick, sparing him a glance as if expecting him to be impressed. “Don’t y’all know nothin’?”

And off he marches. They follow him up the path back to camp where the women stand under the RV’s shade. Daryl is shouting for Merle.

“Merle!” he calls. “Merle! Get your ass out here, I got us some squirrels! Stew ‘em up…” He lays down his crossbow, oblivious to the uncomfortable expressions of his fellow survivors, and slings his catch of squirrels carelessly, looking for his brother.

“Daryl,” Shane says carefully, capturing his attention. “Slow up a bit, I need to talk to you.” 

Daryl slows and glances back once at the RV before going to Shane. “’Bout what?”

Shane is plainly uncomfortable, and he does not look at Daryl as he says, “’Bout Merle.” He walks past him, fidgeting. “There was a, uh…a problem in Atlanta.”

Finally he faces him as the camp is silent, watching. Daryl looks back at Rick and the others who had met him at the edge of the forest; their grim expressions are confirmation. Daryl looks at the ground and moves away as if putting some space between himself and the news Shane had delivered.

“Dead?” he asks simply.

“Not sure.”

“He either is or he ain’t!” Daryl says harshly, storming past Shane and locking onto him with a baleful glare.

“No easy way to say it, so I’ll just say it,” Rick says, coming forward to relieve Shane of Daryl’s wrath. Daryl focuses his glower onto Rick.

“Who’re you?”

“Rick Grimes.”

“ _Rick Grimes_ ,” Daryl sneers, his fury boiling hotter. “You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

“Your brother was a danger to us all,” Rick says dispassionately. “So I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal. He’s still there.”

Daryl turns away sharply, wiping his sweaty brow. “Hm. Let me process this.” He faces Rick again, moving restlessly. “Sayin’ you handcuffed my brother to a roof? And you _left him there?!_ ”

Rick ducks his head. Quietly, he says, “Yeah.”

Daryl’s mouth is a thin, shaking, furious line. He throws the dead squirrels at Rick and launches himself at him next. Immediately Shane slams into him. On the ground, Daryl unsheathes his knife.

“Hey, watch the knife,” Shane warns him as Daryl staggers to his feet. Daryl ignores him and goes after Rick again, his blade glinting dangerously in the sunlight. Rick narrowly avoids it, and when Daryl swipes at him again, he grabs his wrist in an iron grip, twisting his arm. Shane comes up behind Daryl and curls one strong arm around his throat as Rick forces Daryl to drop his knife. Daryl scrabbles angrily at the arm forcing his head back, spluttering.

“Best let me go!” he roars as Shane pulls him, struggling, away from Rick.

“Think it’s better if I don’t,” Shane grunts, his voice strained with effort but calm. Daryl’s knees buckle.

“Chokehold’s illegal,” Daryl gripes. His words are slightly slurred as Shane restricts the blood flow to his head.

“Yeah, you can file a complaint.” Daryl continues to struggle, and Shane says in a tone of voice highly reminiscent of a mother dealing with a fussy child, “C’mon now, we can do this all day.”

Rick comes closer to crouch in front of Daryl, whose wild thrashing and snarling has dissolved into sitting and puffing with upset little whimpers.

“I’d like to have a calm discussing on this topic,” Rick says smoothly, ducking his head to force eye contact with Daryl. “You think we can manage that?” When Daryl refuses to respond, Rick repeats himself, “ _You think we can manage that?_ ”

Daryl doesn’t speak, his teeth grit and panting with outrage. He’s stopped struggling against Shane’s hold, though, so Shane and Rick exchange an agreeing look before Shane throws Daryl to the ground. Daryl scrambles back defensively in the dirt, pointing a warning finger at Shane.

“What I did was not a whim,” Rick explains when Daryl pushes himself to his hands and knees, looking at him. “Your brother does not work and play well with others.”

T-Dog speaks up then. “It’s not Rick’s fault.” He has their attention. “I had the key. I dropped it.”

“You couldn’t pick it up?” Daryl says incredulously.

“I dropped it in a drain,” T-Dog elaborates. Daryl huffs a quiet, disbelieving little laugh, hanging his head. Rick stands up, and soon Daryl rises to his feet as well.

“If that’s supposed to make me feel better,” Daryl says coldly, “it don’t.”

“Maybe this will,” T-Dog says firmly. “I chained the door to the roof so the geeks couldn’t get at him. With a padlock.”

“That’s gotta count for somethin’,” Rick vouches when Daryl turns his head in disgust. Daryl glances at him and then back to T-Dog before dropping his gaze to the ground, shifting on his feet. He wipes his eyes and gesticulates wildly at the entire group.

“Hell with all y’all!” he snarls. His voice breaks as he goes on, “Tell me where he is so’s I can go get ‘im.”

There’s a long moment of silence as he stares at Rick, who is plainly torn, until finally Lori is the one who speaks: “He’ll show you. Isn’t that right?”

Ricks nods. “I’m goin’ back.”

Lori goes inside the RV, and though Daryl is clearly far from satisfied as he brushes past Rick, it will have to do.


	2. Looking for Merle ("Vatos")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER: Daryl and the others looking for Merle in Atlanta in the fourth episode of season one, "Vatos."

Daryl looks down at his brother’s severed hand, his breath coming in unsteady gasps. His face crumples, like he might cry, but it soon contorts with rage. He swings his crossbow around to aim it at T-Dog’s face with a furious shout. Rick raises his gun immediately, pulling the hammer back with an ominous click and holding it an inch from Daryl’s temple. Daryl’s crossbow is trembling; Rick’s revolver is not.

 

“I won’t hesitate,” the sheriff coldly promises. “I don’t care if every walker in the city hears it.”

 

Daryl’s lower lip trembles and he blinks rapidly, eyes rimmed with red. Finally, he lowers his crossbow from T-Dog’s face. He doesn’t look away from him as Rick lowers his gun.

 

“You got a…” Daryl says quietly, voice faltering, “you got a do-rag or somethin’?”

 

T-Dog pulls one from his pocket and hands it over. Daryl goes to Merle’s hand and steels himself, breathing deeply, before stooping to lay the do-rag out on the cement.

 

“I guess the, uh, saw blade was too dull for the handcuff,” he speculates, using two fingers to gingerly lift the hand by its pinky. He grimaces, turning it this way and that to get a good look at it. The flies have helped themselves to the dead flesh. “Ain’t that a bitch.”

 

He sets Merle’s hand on the do-rag with a sigh and gently folds the cloth around it. He picks it up and looks at Glenn, lighting up with an idea. He circles around him and yanks open the boy’s backpack. Glenn looks mildly horrified as Daryl stuffs the rotting hand into his pack, but he wisely chooses not to comment.

 

“He must’ve used a tourniquet,” Daryl continues, moving away from Glenn to evaluate the messy handcuffs Merle had left behind. “Maybe his belt. Be much more blood if he didn’t.” He gestures to the volume of blood splattered in one spot next to the handcuffs and discarded saw, and follows the thin trail of blood droplets away towards the door to the roof. Rick and Glenn silently follow him while T-Dog gathers the box of Dale’s tools he had dropped.

 

Daryl leads the way into the stairwell, cautious but quick with his crossbow at the ready. The stairwell is empty.

 

“Merle!” Daryl barks. “You in here?” His voice echoes hollowly. No one responds.

 

They comb every room with every floor they reach. In a business office with wooden paneling, Daryl sends an arrow through the forehead of a walker missing her lower jaw. Merle is nowhere in sight. He creeps at Rick’s side, peering into room after empty room. They enter one with two dead walkers decomposing on the carpet among strewn papers.

 

“Had enough in him to take out these two sumbitches,” Daryl proudly notes. “One-handed. Toughest asshole I ever met, my brother.” He pauses to reload his crossbow next to the one furthest from the door that Merle had apparently bludgeoned to death, going by the gore-painted wrench next to its head. “Give him a hammer, he’ll crap out nails.”

 

“Any man can pass out from blood loss,” Rick reminds him gravely. “Don’t matter how tough he is.”

 

They move on. The blood trail leads to tile floors of another room. Daryl calls for Merle again.

 

“We’re not alone here, remember?” Rick hisses in his ear.

 

“Screw that,” Daryl brushes him off. “He could be bleedin’ out, you said so yourself.”

 

He continues forward, leading the other three into a dark kitchen. Flames flicker brightly on the stove. A belt lies next to it. Rick reaches out and picks up an iron steak weight, examining it.

 

“What’s that burnt stuff?” Glenn whispers, looking at the weight in Rick’s hand.

 

“Skin,” he answers grimly. “He cauterized the stump.” Glenn looks away, nauseated, as Rick sets the steak weight down carefully.

 

“Told you he was tough,” Daryl insists softly. “Nobody can kill Merle but Merle.”

 

“Don’t take that on faith,” Rick warns him. “He lost a lot of blood.”

 

“Yeah?” Daryl strides away, aiming for a nearby window and smirking. “Didn’t stop him from bustin’ outta this deathtrap.”

 

“He left the building?” Glenn says, amazed. He, Rick, and T-Dog join Daryl in staring out of the hole busted through the window pane. “Why the hell would he do that?”

 

“Why wouldn’t he?” Daryl straightens up, walking away from the window. “He’s out there alone, as far as he knows. Doin’ what he’s gotta do. Survivin’.”

 

“You call that surviving?” T-Dog says dubiously. “Just wandering out in the streets, maybe passing out? What are his odds out there?”

 

Daryl rounds on him. “No worse than bein’ handcuffed and left to rot by you sorry pricks!”

 

T-Dog and Glenn look away, exasperated and guilty. Daryl stops in front of Rick, inches from his face.

 

“ _You_ couldn’t kill him,” he says scornfully. “Ain’t so worried about some dumb, dead bastard.”

 

“What about a thousand dumb, dead bastards?” Rick says evenly, meeting his eyes. “Different story.”

 

“Take a tally. Do what you want. I’ma go get him.” He makes to pass him by, but Rick puts a hand against his chest.

 

“Daryl, wait—”

 

“ _Get your hands off me!_ ” Daryl shouts, jerking back from Rick’s hand as if pushed. “You can’t stop me!”

 

“I don’t blame you,” Rick says with unmistakable, forceful authority. “He’s family. I get that. I went through hell to find mine. I know exactly how you feel.”

 

Daryl is pale with a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, lips pursed tightly, but he is quiet and looking Rick in the eye, listening.

 

“He can’t get far with that injury,” Rick continues. “We can help you check a few blocks around, but only if we keep a level head.”

 

For a long moment they stare at one another in silence, and it looks like Daryl may keep on protesting. But finally he gives a nigh imperceptible nod and says stiffly, “I can do that.”

 

Relieved, Rick looks to Glenn and T-Dog. T-Dog shakes his head and sighs, exhausted, “Only if we get those guns first. I’m not strollin’ the streets of Atlanta with just my good intentions, okay?”

 

They vacate the kitchen and Glenn puts together a plan in another room. T-Dog sits against a desk next to Glenn, who doodles a map hurriedly on the linoleum floor with a magic marker. Daryl leans against the wall while Rick stands over Glenn’s drawing, troubled by his plan.

 

“You’re not doing this alone,” he protests.

 

“Even I think it’s a bad idea,” Daryl agrees, “and I don’t even like you much.”

 

Glenn looks up, exasperated. “It’s a good idea! Okay? If you could just hear me out.” Rick crouches next to him, displeased. “If we go out there in a group, we’re slow, drawing attention. If I’m alone, I can move fast. Look.”

 

He directs them to the map on the floor. Between two squares representing buildings, he positions a binder clip.

 

“That’s the tank, five blocks from where we are now.” He places a wadded strip of paper next to it. “That’s the bag of guns.” He points to one of the drawn streets and looks at Rick. “Here’s the alley I dragged you into when we first met. That’s where Daryl and I will go.”

 

“Why me?” Daryl asks.

 

“Your crossbow is quieter than his gun.” Daryl nods and gives him a quick, awkward smile. Glenn goes on, “While Daryl waits here in the alley, I run up the street and grab the bag.”

 

“But you got us elsewhere?” Rick asks uncertainly.

 

“You and T-Dog, right,” Glenn confirms. He places an eraser to represent them on another doodled street. “You’ll be in this alley here.”

 

“Two blocks away,” Rick points out. “Why?”

 

“I may not be able to come back the same way,” Glenn explains. “Walkers might cut me off. If that happens, I won’t go back to Daryl, I’ll go forward instead, all the way around to that alley where you guys are. Whichever way I go, I got you in both places to cover me. Afterwards, we’ll all meet back here.”

 

Rick nods, accepting the plan.

 

“Hey kid, what’d you do before all this?” Daryl asks appreciatively.

 

“Delivered pizzas,” Glenn answers, wide-eyed. “Why?”

 

Rick raises his eyebrows and looks at Daryl, who shrugs and looks away. They’re not sure what they expected.

 

Soon enough, Daryl is following Glenn down the fire escape. They creep swiftly and silently down the alley, ducking low to avoid drawing the attention of the walkers ahead.

 

“You got some balls for a Chinaman,” Daryl says casually as they hide behind a dumpster.

 

“I’m Korean,” Glenn says, annoyed.

 

“Whatever.” He loads his crossbow as Glenn darts away, edging closer to the mouth of the alley, staying close to the wall. He scurries out into the open, hunched over, shielding himself with cars as best he can as he moves further down the street. Walkers are dangerously close, but Glenn flings himself behind sand barriers, unharmed.

 

In the alley, Daryl hears approaching footsteps. He leaps into view, crossbow at the ready, only to discover he’s aiming at a human.

 

“Whoa, don’t shoot me!” the young stranger cries. “What do you want?”

 

“Lookin’ for my brother,” Daryl says sharply, not lowering his weapon. “He’s hurt real bad. You seen him?”

 

“ _Ayudame!_ ” the kid hollers suddenly.

 

“Shut up!” Daryl orders, shoving the crossbow in his face. “You’re gonna bring the geeks down on us! Answer me!”

 

Back on the street, Glenn snatches up the bag of guns and takes off—then whirls back with a groan to retrieve Rick’s hat. He sprints away as a walker closes in.

 

In the alley, Daryl advances on the kid and growls, “Answer me.”

 

“ _Ayudame!_ ” he shrieks. “ _Ayudame, ayudame!_ ”

 

Daryl cracks him across the face with his crossbow, sending the kid sprawling. He continues to shout, and Daryl kneels beside him, slapping a hand over his mouth. As he tries his best to shut the kid up, two men approach at top speed, and one kicks Daryl away hard. They’re on him in an instant, the first one kicking him repeatedly and the second one beating him violently with a bat.

 

Glenn returns to the alley and sees the clusterfuck. The two men look away from Daryl and spot him.

 

“That’s it!” one shouts, pointing. “That’s the bag, _vato_ , take it!” They abandon Daryl and start for Glenn. Glenn turns on his heel and starts to run, but they wrestle him to the ground in no time, taking the guns and yanking him up, holding the aluminum bat across his throat.

 

Daryl pushes himself up, aims his crossbow, and lets and arrow fly. It nails the one who had kicked him—right in the ass. The man bellows in pain, but his voice is drowned out by the roar of a car engine approaching. Daryl takes aim again.

 

“Get off me!” Glenn struggles wildly, but a white car screeches to a halt behind them, and the men drag him to it as several walkers lurch closer. “Daryl! _Daryl!_ ”

 

Daryl staggers to his feet and runs for the car, but the men have already thrown Glenn into it. The tires squeal on the asphalt and the car takes off, rotting walker fingers scrabbling uselessly at the bumper.

 

“Come back here!” Daryl screams after the car, clutching the wire fence. “You sumbitches!” The walkers advance upon him, and he’s forced to yank the fence shut, trapping himself behind it as the car speeds further away. He turns and grabs the kid, who has risen to his feet as well. Rick and T-Dog appear, running at top speed. Daryl flings the kid against the wall and throws himself at him, only for Rick to shove himself between them.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” the sheriff hollers. “Stop it!”

 

“I’m gonna kick your nuts up in your throat!” Daryl roars at the boy as Rick pushes him back.

 

“Let me go!” the kid shouts at T-Dog.

 

“Chill out!” T-Dog orders, shoving him back against the wall.

 

“They took Glenn!” Daryl keeps trying to force his way past Rick. “This little bastard and his little bastard homie friends! _I’m gonna stomp your ass!_ ”

 

“Guys, guys!” T-Dog says sharply. He points at the gate where the walkers struggle, snarling and ravenous. “We’re cut off!”

 

“Get to the lab, go!” Rick instructs T-Dog tightly. T-Dog takes off, yanking the boy with him by the arm. Rick snatches up the bag of guns that lay near the gate.

 

“C’mon, damn, let’s go!” Daryl snaps. Rick pauses one last time to grab his hat, and then they start to run.


	3. Saving Glenn ("Vatos")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER: Daryl, Rick, and T-Dog attempt to rescue Glenn.

"Those men you were with," Rick says patiently to the kid, "we need to know where they went."

They're holed up safely—for the time being—in a business office back inside the building. Rick, Daryl, and T-Dog have him sat in a chair for interrogation. Daryl is agitated, pacing restlessly behind Rick.

"I ain't tellin' you nothin'," the boy says stubbornly.

"Jesus, man," T-Dog growls, looking over at Daryl. "What the hell happened back there?"

"I told you!" Daryl shouts. "This little turd and his douchebag friends came outta nowhere and jumped me!"

"You're the one who jumped me,  _puto_ ," the kid spits. He glances to T-Dog and Rick. "Screamin' about his brother like it's my damn fault."

"They took Glenn," Daryl insists. "Coulda taken Merle too."

" _Merle?_ " the kid repeats, his brow furrowed. "What kinda hick name is that? I wouldn't name my dog Merle."

Daryl charges at him, red-faced, leveling a kick haphazardly at the boy. The kid flinches away, but Rick wrestles Daryl bodily a safe distance away, grunting, "Damn it, Daryl, back off!"

Daryl lets the sheriff manhandle him away from the boy, glowering at him darkly, until an idea sparks in his eye. He goes to Glenn's backpack and pulls out Merle's hand, still bundled in T-Dog's do-rag.

"Wanna see what happened to the last guy that pissed me off?" he asks. Daryl throws the hand into the kid's lap with a rotten splat. The boy yelps and scrambles away in horror, abandoning the chair and sliding down the office wall to the floor. Daryl advances on him and wraps his hands around his throat. "We'll start with the feet this time!"

Again, Rick comes to the kid's rescue and drags Daryl off of him by the back of his shirt. He crouches in front of the boy, his voice still gentle as he explains, "The men you were with took our friend. All we wanna do is talk to them, see if we can work something out."

The boy bites his lip and glances over Rick's shoulder at Daryl. Finally, he nods.

Not an hour later, they're quietly gathered where the boy had led them, scoping the place out.

"You sure about this?" Rick asks T-Dog. T-Dog is anxious and breathless, but he nods resolutely. Rick loads his gun, nodding. "Okay."

"One wrong move," Daryl growls to the boy sitting in the grass, "you get an arrow in the ass. Just so you know."

"G's gonna take that arrow outta my ass and shove it up yours," the kid retorts. "Just so  _you_ know."

"G?" Rick repeats.

"Guillermo," the boy elaborates. "He the man here."

"Okay then," Rick says, loading the last of his ammo into his gun and looking up at Daryl. "Let's go see Guillermo."

They abandon their hiding spot and approach the building openly. Rick leads the way, followed by their hostage, with Daryl trailing close behind. Rick pushes the boy in front of them, he and Daryl holding their weapons at the ready, on edge, prepared for attack. The double doors of the building slowly creak open, and a young man steps out, backed by two larger men. Presumably Guillermo.

"You okay, little man?" he asks the boy casually.

"They wanna cut off my feet,  _carnal_ ," the kid says nervously. Guillermo looks over the boy's shoulder curiously at Rick.

"Cops do that?"

"Not him!" the boy says impatiently. He gestures behind him at Daryl. "This redneck  _puto_ , here! He cut off some dude's hand, man! He showed it to me!"

"Shut up!" Daryl snaps.

One of the bigger men storms forward, aiming a gun at Daryl. "Hey, that's that  _vato_ right there, he shot me in the ass with an arrow, man!" Daryl's eyes narrow, crossbow trained on the man.

"Chill,  _ese_ , chill," Guillermo says calmly, pushing the other man's gun down. He looks at Rick and Daryl. "This true? He wants Miguelito's feet? 'S pretty sick, man."

"We were hoping more for a calm discussion," Rick explains.

"That hillbilly jumps Filipe's little cousin, beats on him, threatens to cut off his feet, Filipe gets an arrow in the ass, and you want a calm discussion?" He shakes his head. "You fascinate me."

"Heat of the moment," Rick says smoothly. "Mistakes were made on both sides."

Guillermo looks at him carefully for a moment before jerking his head at Daryl. "Who's that dude to you anyway? You don't look related."

"He's one of our group, more or less," says Rick. "I'm sure you have a few like him."

"You got my brother in there?" Daryl pipes up.

"Sorry," Guillermo says dryly. "Fresh outta white boys. But I got an Asian. Interested?"

"I have one of yours," Rick reasons. "You have one of mine. Sounds like an even trade."

"Don't sound even to me."

Miguel looks at him, terrified, and chances a laugh. "G! C'mon, man!"

"My people got attacked," Guillermo says sharply. "Where's the compensation for their pain and suffering? More to the point—where's my bag of guns?"

"Guns?"

"The bag Miguel saw in the street," Guillermo explains. "The bag Filipe and Jorge were going back to get. That bag of guns."

"You're mistaken," Rick says coolly.

"I don't think so."

"About it bein' yours." Rick's expression is determined. "It's my bag of guns."

Guillermo shrugs. "Bag was in the street. Anybody could come around and say it was theirs. I'm supposed to take your word?" Rick is silent. "What's to stop my people from unloading on you right here and now and I take what's mine?"

Filipe and Jorge raise their pistols and take aim in unison to punctuate. Daryl tenses, knuckles whitening as he grips his crossbow tight. Behind the two men, others raise their own weapons, prepared to defend their turf.

"You could do that." Rick's voice only barely reveals his nervousness. He turns to look up at the roof of the adjacent building, confident. "Or not."

Guillermo follows his gaze and sees T-Dog positioned there, a sniper rifle locked, loaded, and aimed right at him. Guillermo looks unconcerned and calls to someone unseen, " _Oye!_ "

On top of the building in front of them, two men shove someone to the edge of the roof. They rip a sack off of the person's head to reveal that it's Glenn—bound and his mouth duct-taped shut, whimpering in terror.

Guillermo says, "I see two options: you come back with Miguel and my bag of guns, everybody walks; or you come back locked and loaded. See which side spills more blood."

Rick is quiet, frustrated. Guillermo and his men retreat into their building. Rick leads his group back to their building. Inside the business office, Rick slams the bag of guns down on the desk and unzips it.

"Guns worth more'n gold," Daryl reminds him, pacing. "Gold won't protect your family, put food on the table." He watches the sheriff take apart a pistol. "You willin' to give that up for that kid?"

"If I knew we'd get Glenn back, I might agree," T-Dog offers. His voice is troubled. "You think that  _vato_ across the way's just gonna hand him over?"

Miguel glares at him from his position on the floor. "You callin' G a liar?"

"You part of this?" Daryl rounds on him. He gives Miguel's cheek a sharp slap. "You wanna hold onto your teeth?"

T-Dog presses on as if nothing happened. "Question is, do you trust that man's word?"

"No, question is what you're willin' to bet on it," Daryl disagrees irritably. "Could be more'n them guns. Could be your life." He stares at Rick firmly. "Glenn worth that to you?"

Rick slides the pistol into his holster and meets Daryl's gaze solemnly. "What life I have, I owe to him. I was nobody to Glenn, just some idiot stuck in a tank. He could've walked away, but he didn't. Neither will I."

"So you're gonna hand the guns over."

"I didn't say that." As Daryl surveys him with an expression that almost seems to convey respect, Rick says, "There's nothing keeping you two here. You should get out, head back to camp."

T-Dog scrubs a hand over his head, drained. "And tell your family what?"

Rick stares at him, taking in the resolute expression he wears, and then looks at Daryl. Daryl says nothing, but his nod is worth a thousand words. The three men select their weapons of choice from the bag.

"C'mon, this is nuts!" Miguel complains, rising to his feet. Daryl fixes him with a stern glare, pointing and directing him to sit his ass back down. Miguel sits.


	4. Searching for Sophia ("What Lies Ahead")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER: Rick and Daryl searching for Sophia in the forest in the first episode of season two, "What Lies Ahead."

"You sure this is the spot?" Daryl peers under the brush that Rick had left Sophia underneath. Standing calf-deep in muddy, slow-moving water, he looks back at Rick curiously.

"I left her right here," Rick insists, voice tight with worry. They're losing daylight, and they haven't found Sophia. "I drew the walkers way off in that direction up the creek."

"Without a paddle," Daryl says dryly. "Seems where we've landed."

"She was gone by the time I got back here," Rick tells him. "I figured she just took off and ran back to the group." He points in the direction of the highway from the creek, sloshing in the water. "I told her go that way and keep the sun on her left shoulder."

"Hey, short round," Daryl barks at Glenn, standing up on the bank of the creek with Shane. "Why don't you step off to one side? You're muckin' up the trail!"

"Assumin' she knows her left from her right," Shane points out doubtfully to Rick.

"Shane, she understood me fine!" Rick says impatiently.

"Kid's tired and scared, man," Shane says grimly. "She had her a close call with two walkers. Gotta wonder how much of what you said stuck."

Daryl pulls their attention back to looking for signs. "Got clear prints right here. She did like you said, headed back to the highway. We spread out, make our way back," he directs the group. He reaches up and grabs Shane's hand, hefting himself up out of the water and onto the bank.

"Let's go," says Shane, "she couldn't've gotten far." He helps Rick up the bank. "Hey, we're gonna find her. She'll be tuckered out, hidin' in a bush somewhere." They follow Daryl through the trees until he slows, staring firmly at the ground, and stops to kneel.

"She was doin' just fine till right here," he mutters, perplexed. "All she had to do was keep goin'." He points off to the right. "Veered off that way."

"Why would she do that?" Glenn asks uneasily.

"Maybe she saw somethin'," Shane suggests, looking to Daryl for confirmation. "Spooked her. Made her run off."

"Walker," Glenn says with quiet dread.

Daryl shakes his head, unconvinced. "Don't see any other footprints, just hers."

"So what do we do?" asks Shane. "All of us press on?"

"No," Rick says. "Better if you and Glenn get back up to the highway. People are gonna start panicking. Let 'em know we're on her trail doing everything we can, but most of all, keep everybody calm."

"I'll keep 'em busy scavenging cars," Shane agrees, "think up a few other chores. I can keep 'em occupied." He waves for Glenn to join him. "C'mon."

They set off for the highway, leaving Rick with Daryl. Daryl stands and follows Sophia's trail in the new direction, Rick tailing close behind. Soon enough, the tracks get harder to follow.

"The tracks are gone," says Rick in dismay.

"Nah," Daryl assures him, "they're faint, they ain't gone." He points. "She came through here."

"How can you tell?" asks the sheriff. "I don't see anything. Dirt, grass…"

"You want a lesson in tracking or you wanna find that girl and get our ass off that interstate?" Daryl says tersely. He has no time to play teacher with Rick. They press on.

The sound of heavy footsteps on leaves has them dropping to a crouch. They move forward carefully, keeping low, as they get a walker in their sights. Daryl silently instructs Rick to distract it. Rick darts away and whistles at the walker like he would a dog. The walker turns to him, snarling, and Daryl shoots an arrow through its head from behind.

They come together over its body, Daryl yanking his arrow free and looking around at the forest. He sighs and calls for Sophia while Rick kneels by the corpse, donning a pair of work gloves and picking up one of the walker's hands.

"What're you lookin' for?" Daryl wonders.

"Skin under the fingernails."

Troubled, Daryl stoops to look closer with him. Rick turns the body over onto its back, observing its face. Fresh blood coats its mouth and teeth.

"It fed recently," Rick says. He pries the walker's mouth open further and tries to pull something from its teeth. He looks away as he does it, disgusted. "There's flesh caught in its teeth." He tugs the flesh free and holds it up to look at it.

"Yeah, what kind of flesh?" Daryl asks, leaning closer for a better look at Rick's find. Rick pauses, and takes a moment to look thoroughly unhappy with what has to happen next.

"Only one way to know for sure," he says. He takes out his knife and pulls the walker's shirt open.

Daryl touches his shoulder, stopping him. "Here, I'll do it." He rises to his feet and stands astride the body, pulling out his own knife and donning his own gloves. "How many kills you skinned and gutted in your life, anyway? Mine's sharper."

He takes a firm stance, gripping his knife in both hands, and stabs it deep into the walker's stomach. Rick watches, trying his hardest to keep an impassive expression as Daryl saws down the abdomen; the sound of a blade ripping through dead, wet flesh is repulsive. He flinches as Daryl thrusts his knife back in a second time, cutting deeper and yanking down harder, and again a third time.

After the third, Daryl sits back a bit, taking a breath and glancing at Rick. "That was the bad part." And he plunges his hands deep into the walker's abdomen, coating his gloves in thick, slick brown sludge. He roots around inside determinedly and pulls out—something. He tosses it aside. Rick forces himself to watch, but has to look away nauseously and take a breath when Daryl pulls out something long and stringy, squishing it and throwing it down. He gags as Daryl pokes and prods at the stomach, concentrating.

"Yeah," Daryl grunts, completely unconcerned with the wet squelches and the smell. "Hoss had a big meal not long ago. I feel it in there." He pulls the organ out whole and drops it in the leaves at Rick's knees. "Here's the gut bag."

"I got this," Rick says, feeling like he has to prove himself. He cuts into the stomach with some difficulty, ripping it open and revealing the contents. He picks at the gunk inside with the tip of his knife and groans, revolted. Daryl hooks the tip of his knife into the skull of some animal and holds it up for them to see.

"This gross bastard had himself a woodchuck for lunch," he says. He stands up.

"At least we know," Rick admits.

Daryl agrees. "At least we know."

It's getting dark. They have to head back. When they reach the highway, everyone runs to meet them. The group's faces fall when they see Sophia is not with them.

"You didn't find her?" Carol says weakly, heartbroken.

"Her trail went cold," Rick explains, stepping over the guardrail. "We'll pick it up again at first light."

"You can't leave my daughter out there on her own to spend the night alone in the woods," Carol protests tearfully, fidgeting restlessly before him.

"Out in the dark's no good," Daryl says gently. "We'd just be trippin' over ourselves, more people get lost."

"But she's twelve, you can't leave her out there on her own!" Carol cries, her voice breaking in a panic. "You didn't find  _anything?_ "

"I know this is hard," Rick says, raising his hands to placate her, "but I'm asking you not to panic. We know she was out there."

"And we tracked her for a while," Daryl adds, hoping to soothe her.

"We have to make this an organized effort," Rick says to the group. "Daryl knows the woods better than anybody. I've asked him to oversee this."

Carol stares breathlessly at Daryl's feet and asks, "Is that blood?"

Daryl looks down at his legs and then at Rick, anxious. Rick tells Carol, "We took down a walker." Carol looks faint, repeating the word. "There was no sign it was ever anywhere near Sophia."

"How can you know that?" Andrea asks. Rick looks uncomfortable, and turns to Daryl. Daryl looks earnestly at Carol.

"We cut the sumbitch open," he assures her. "Made sure."

Carol eases herself unsteadily down to sit on the guardrail, and Lori goes to her side. Carol looks up at Rick, her eyes brimming with tears. "How could you just...leave her out there to begin with?" Rick steps back guiltily. "How could just  _leave_ her?"

"Those two walkers were on us," Rick says, desperate for Carol's understanding. "I-I had to draw 'em off, it was her best chance."

Shane comes to Rick's defense. Reasonably, he says, "Sounds like he didn't have a choice, Carol."

"How is she supposed to find her way back on her own?" Carol sobs, rocking back and forth. Lori puts her arm around her shoulders. "She's just a child, she's just a child…"

Rick crouches in front of her. "It—it—it was my only option, the only choice I could make."

"I'm sure nobody doubts that," Shane insists.

"My little girl got left in the woods," Carol whimpers.


	5. Andrea and Daryl ("Save the Last One")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER: Daryl and Andrea come across a walker in the forest in episode three of season two, "Save the Last One."

The RV is dark and quiet for the most part, but not silent enough for Daryl to fall asleep. He lies on the floor with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling; Carol and Andrea are in there with him, and he supposes he's at least a little bit welcome to share the living space with them more than he would be with any of the others. Andrea is closer to the front of RV, sitting at the table and practicing assembling and reassembling her gun. Carol is in the back, lying in bed and crying softly.

Daryl lifts his head to look down the Winnebago at her and lies back again with a sigh. He looks back at Andrea, wondering if she's bothered as bothered as he is by the sad sounds Carol is making, but her attention is focused on her gun.

He can't take it anymore. He sits up, deliberates for a moment, then stands and goes to Andrea and their weapons. He slings his crossbow over his shoulder.

"I need my clip now," he says, hushed. She gives it to him. "I'mma walk the road, look for the girl." He glances over at Carol, who shifts slightly in bed to look at them, alerted by his voice. She wipes underneath her eyes, and Daryl nods to her, a silent promise.

He exits the RV, clicking on his flashlight, and turns when he hears Andrea hop from the RV after him, saying, "I'm coming too."

Daryl has no problem with that. He looks up at Dale on top of the RV, on watch duty, and says, "I'mma go for a walk, shine some light into the forest. If she's out there, it'll give her somethin' to look at."

"Do you think that's a good idea right now?" Dale asks worriedly.

"Dale." Andrea's voice is sharp, exasperated. It's clear she's had enough of Dale's bullshit. She marches past Daryl, who looks up at Dale with an awkward, almost apologetic half-smile and follows Andrea into the dark.

They walk in silence for a while, listening to the crickets and cicadas, until Andrea wonders, "You really think we're gonna find Sophia?"

Daryl looks at her incredulously, shining his flashlight on her face, then scoffs derisively. "You got that look on your face same as everybody else. The hell is wrong with you people? We just started lookin'!"

" _Do_ you?" Andrea presses.

"It ain't the mountains of Tibet!" Daryl says impatiently. "It's Georgia! She could be holed off in a farmhouse somewhere. People get lost, they survive, happens all the time."

"She's only twelve," Andrea reminds him doubtfully.

"Hell, I was younger'n her and I got lost," Daryl shrugs. "Nine days in the woods, eatin' berries and wipin' my ass with poison oak."

"They found you…?" Andrea guesses.

Daryl shakes his head. "My old man was off on a bender with some waitress. Merle was doin' another stint in juvie. Didn't even know I was gone. I made my way back, though. Went straight into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich, no worse for wear. 'Cept my ass itched somethin' awful."

Andrea snorts, and when Daryl looks at her, she tries to stifle more laughter. She giggles, "Sorry. Sorry, that is a  _terrible_ story." When she looks over again, Daryl is looking at the ground, smiling a bit as well, and she bursts out laughing again. He huffs out his own little laugh as well, soft.

"Only different is Sophia's got people lookin' for her," he concludes. "I call that an advantage."

The conversation dies for a while and they walk side by side quietly again. The forest is surprisingly calm, and even though their task is a somber one, they're at ease. The rustle of something moving in the trees startles them, and Daryl swings his crossbow and flashlight around in the direction of the noise. Andrea sticks close to his side as they go to investigate.

They find a small campsite. No one seems to be in the dirty tent. They move past it as the leaves on a nearby tree rustle noisily, approaching with extreme caution.

Then Daryl says flatly, "What the hell…?" as his light shines on the source of the movement—a walker, hanging by a noose from a tree branch and missing the flesh from his legs. Daryl creeps closer as the walker snarls and flails, reaching hungrily for them, but Andrea stands back, frozen and horrified. Daryl leans closer to the tree to inspect a piece of paper pinned to the bark.

" _Got bit/ fever hit/ world gone to shit/ might as well quit_ ," he reads. He looks up at the walker with an expression of distaste. "Dumbass didn't know enough to shoot himself in the head. Turned himself into a big, swingin' piece of bait." He gives the bones of its legs a criticizing look. "And a mess."

Andrea groans, closing her eyes and bracing herself on her knees, breathing deeply.

"You all right?" Daryl asks, looking over at her.

"Trying not to puke," she says shortly.

Daryl returns his eyes to the walker. "Go ahead if you got it."

"No, no, I'm fine, let's just…talk about something else for a moment?" She straightens up just slightly, breathing a bit easier and peering at Daryl. "How'd you learn to shoot?"

"You gotta eat," he says idly. "'S one thing these walkers and us have in common. This is the closest he's been to food since he turned. Look at 'im, hangin' up there like a big piñata…" He points, fascinated, at the leg bones. "The other geeks came and ate all the flesh off his legs."

He hears Andrea gag and looks over his shoulder just in time to see her vomit into her hand. She coughs and wipes her mouth, then wipes her hand on her shirt.

"I thought we were changing the subject," she complains, retching slightly.

"Call that payback for laughin' about my itchy ass," Daryl says wryly.

"Wasn't a lot that came up," Andrea says plaintively, looking at her meager mess of vomit. Daryl grunts, not bothered.

"Let's head back," he suggests, turning away from the flailing walker and going in the direction they'd come from.

Andrea falters, confused, and gestures at the walker with her flashlight. "Aren't you gonna…?"

Daryl looks at it, bemused. "No. He ain't hurtin' nobody. Ain't gonna waste an arrow, either. He made his choice, opted out. Let 'im hang." He continues on his way, unconcerned.

Again, Andrea hangs back, and this time she does inch closer to the walker, staring at it with wide eyes. Daryl pauses when he notices she's not following. He watches her take slow steps toward the thing, snarling and trying his damnedest to claw at her. Daryl comes closer, inclining his head.

"You wanna live now? Or not?" he asks calmly. Andrea whirls around, startled. There's a struggle in her eyes. "'S just a question."

Andrea hesitates, looking back at the walker, pained. "An answer for an arrow. Fair?" Daryl nods. "I don't know if I wanna live. Or if I have to, or…if it's just a habit."

Daryl surveys her for a moment, his expression unfathomable. "Not much of an answer." But he raises his crossbow and sinks an arrow in the walker's forehead, too high to retrieve. "Waste of an arrow."

He turns his back on her, and they finally head back to the highway, their search for Sophia still unsuccessful. He pauses outside of the RV when Dale looks at him; he drops his eyes to the street, disappointed, and goes inside.


	6. Daryl Gives Carol a Flower ("Cherokee Rose")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER: Daryl gives Carol a flower in the fourth episode of season two, "Cherokee Rose."

Chewing on a piece of grass, he walks to the back of the RV where he knows he'll find Carol. She sits at the table, sewing a tear on a quilt by the light of a lantern. She looks up briefly when Daryl comes in, her face drawn with exhaustion and dwindling hope, then looks back down at her task.

"Cleaned up," she says quietly. "Wanted it to be nice for her."

Daryl nods and looks around. "For a second I thought I was in the wrong place."

Carol glances up with a valiant attempt at a smile, but it only makes her look worse. She drops her eyes back to the quilt and keeps sewing. Daryl has never been good with words (or people, or sad people, or comforting sad people), so he just looks at her, grass swinging between his lips, and gently puts a dirty beer bottle with a white rose in it on the closest surface.

Carol blinks at it, surprised, and says, "A flower?"

"A Cherokee rose," says Daryl, removing the grass from his mouth. He glances back and forth awkwardly between Carol and the flower, and when she doesn't seem to recognize the significance, he explains. "Story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way—exposure and disease and starvation—a lot of 'em just…disappeared." When Carol doesn't speak, he barrels on: "So the elders, they, uh, said a prayer. Asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits. Give 'em strength. Hope."

Carol's eyes drift back to the Cherokee rose in the bottle, her eyes softening slightly.

"The next day," Daryl continues, "this rose started to grow right where the mothers' tears fell." He shifts on his feet, uncomfortable. "I'm not fool enough to think there are any flowers bloomin' for my brother…but, uh, I believe this one, it bloomed for your little girl."

Carol brushes underneath her eyes and finally manages a true, honest-to-God smile, unsteady and tearful as it may be. She laughs softly under her breath, timid, looking down at her quilt. Daryl makes his way back to the front of the RV, his business done for the time being, but he pauses at the door and looks back at Carol.

"She's gonna really like it in here."


	7. Daryl vs. The Forest ("Chupacabra")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER: Daryl struggles alone in episode 5 of season 2, "Chupacabra."

It's been a while since Daryl's been on horseback, but it's like riding a bike. Within ten minutes he's able to take aim on a twitchy squirrel with his crossbow and pin the little bastard to a tree in one shot. He yanks his arrow from the bark and stuffs the squirrel in his back without slowing his borrowed horse's trotting pace. He meanders through the forest near the bank of the river, scanning for any sign of Sophia, and something in the river catches his eye.

He pulls gently on the reigns, slowing the horse, and dismounts her. He fastens her to a tree, not bothering to tie the rope, and eases himself down the bank. He approaches a fallen tree that lies in the shallow brown water and picks up what had caught his attention—Sophia's doll, snagged on the rotting branch. Daryl stares at the pitiful thing, all waterlogged and filthy, wondering how long it's been there, and casts his gaze around the forest.

"Sophia!" he hollers into the trees, though he severely doubts she's nearby. Still, it's solid evidence, a reminder that she's a real goddamn person lost in the woods, that who they're missing is  _real_  and deserves to be looked for. Daryl returns to his horse, determination fluttering harder than ever in his throat, and keeps moving. He keeps his eyes peeled and focused on the forest floor, searching for footprints, pieces of clothing that might've been snagged on twigs,  _anything._  He's distracted only when his horse is briefly spooked by a few crows that squawk and flutter out of a nearby bush, but he gets her back on track in a second.

The rattlesnake in the leaves, however, frightens the horse considerably more than a couple of crows. She bucks, neighing loudly, and despite Daryl's best efforts to get her under control, she sends him flying. He hits the ground hard and the world jolts awkwardly as gravity makes him its bitch—he topples down the incline toward the river, much steeper than before. The forest is a blur of green and brown before his eyes as he tumbles gracelessly down the unforgiving rocky slope, scraping and cutting himself on stone, until he finally lands in the river with an inelegant splash.

"Son of a  _bitch_ ," he groans as an acute, hot stab of pain sears through his side. He clutches at the source of the discomfort and looks down to see that one of his arrows has gone right through him. He lies there, stunned and gasping in pain, and the water around him quickly turns a dark red. He forces himself to his feet, his hand pressed uselessly to his side, unsure whether to press down on the entry wound or the exit wound, as he sloshes unsteadily through the water. Every move is a painful struggle, but he forces himself to reach the sandy shallows just several yards downstream where he had found Sophia's doll. When he reaches it he wants to collapse, but he knows he can't.

He gets to work. He unsheathes his knife and cuts his shirt sleeves off at the shoulders, then sets about tying them together. He wraps them around his torso, securing them around the shaft of the arrow in his side so as it keep it from moving around. He pulls it tight and grits his teeth hard against the pain. When it's done, he looks up at the steep wall of rock next to him.

Daryl has his work cut out for him.

He grabs a sturdy stick from the sand, a handy makeshift walking stick, and pauses when he hears movement off in the trees. Something heavy, mostly likely walker-sized. He reaches for his crossbow, only to realize he'd lost it sometime during his fall down the cliff. And so he backtracks, crouching in the river and poking his stick carefully along the riverbed, searching for his crossbow. He finds it soon enough and wades painfully back to the base of the incline. The arrow in his side hurts like a bitch, and he steels himself for a long, hard, unpleasant climb.

Daryl has endured a lot of pain in his lifetime, but he's not prepared for how much dragging his ass up a cliff with an arrow in his side  _hurts._ He's pathetically slow, each step and reach making him want to vomit, and he has to breathe deeply like he's trying to push a baby out of his asshole. He tries to let himself rest for only a second or two after each step, but when he pushes himself forward with all his strength it takes an enormous amount of effort not to black out or cry.

It gets worse when the cliff's earth gets crumbly and his walking stick is rendered virtually useless. Daryl discards it and watches it tumble down to the river far beneath him. He still has a ways to go. He takes a breath and swings his arm up, finding a firm handhold, but when he tries to pull himself further along, he can't. He settles back to try again.

"Come on," he growls to himself aloud, breathing hard, "you done half. Stop bein' such a pussy." And he swings himself up again, but it doesn't work. He's weak.

And he begins to slide down. Daryl desperately tries to hang on, but to no avail; he falls, farther than before with the added bonus of an arrow lodged inside him. When he hits the ground this time, his consciousness slips away.

He's not sure how long he's out, but when he opens his eyes, a rugged, criticizing face swims into view.

"Why don't you pull that arrow out, dummy?" Merle suggests. "You could bind your wound better."

Daryl's eyes slide shut again as he smiles, head pounding. "Merle…"

Merlse chuckles dryly with a smirk and looks Daryl over. "What's goin' on here? You takin' a siesta or somethin'?"

"A shitty day, bro," Daryl slurs.

Merle snorts. "Like me to get you a pillow? Maybe rub your feet?"

"Screw you."

Merle laughs and kneels beside him. "Uh-uh, you're the one screwed from the looks of it. All them years I spent try'na make a man of you, this what I get? Look atcha, lyin' in the dirt like a used rubber. You gonna die out here, little brother. And for what?"

"Girl." Daryl's eyes open slightly as he thinks of his quest. He squints and shuts them again against the sunlight, but he focuses. "They lost their little girl."

"So you got a thing for little girls now?" Merle sneers.

"Shut up," Daryl snaps, his voice weak and barely there.

"'Cause I noticed you ain't out lookin' for ol' Merle no more," Merle points out.

"Tried like hell to find you, bro," Daryl whispers.

"Like hell you did," Merle scoffs. "You split, man. Lit out first chance you got."

" _You_ let out," Daryl protests. "All you had to do was wait. We went back for you, Rick and I. We did right by you."

"This the same Rick that cuffed me to the rooftop in the first place? Forced me to cut off my own hand?" Merle asks, amused. The reminder makes Daryl's eyes widen, his surroundings sharpen a bit. Bits and pieces of Merle in front of him float into his awareness, his hand…his hand is still there. "That's who we talkin' 'bout here? You his bitch now?"

"I ain't nobody's bitch," Daryl insists.

"You're a joke is what you are," Merle says sharply. "Playin' errand boy to a buncha pansy-asses, niggers, and Democrats." He smiles unkindly. "You're nothin' but a freak to them. Redneck trash, 's all you are. Yeah, they're laughin' atcha 'hind your back. You know that, don'tcha? I got a little news for you, son: one'a these days they're gonna scrape you off their heels like you was dog shit."

Daryl's eyes slide shut, and Merle claps him on the chest commandingly. Daryl opens his eyes.

"Hey, they ain't your kin," Merle growls. "Your blood. Hell, if you had any nuts in that damn sack'a yours, you'd go back there and shoot your pal Rick in the face for me." He leans in and raises a hand—the hand that's not supposed to be there—to grab Daryl's face. "Now you listen to me. Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you 'cept me, little brother." His fingers pat Daryl's cheek gently before grasping firm again. "Ain't nobody ever will."

He lets his face go and pats his chest again, standing up. "Come on. Get up on your feet before I hafta kick your teeth in. Let's go." He kicks Daryl's boot, jarring him, and reaches down to start pulling on his foot. Daryl jolts painfully, the fiery heat of it clearing his head more. He looks down at Merle kicking his feet and—

Merle isn't there. Instead, a walker is hunched over at his feet, snarling and gnawing ravenously on his boot. Daryl jerks away, scrambling back as best he can, his terror temporarily swallowing his pain. He kicks the walker viciously in the head, sends it tumbling, and tries to reach for his crossbow where it had fallen a few feet away from him. But the walker is on him again in a second, and Daryl throws punches like he would in a garden-variety bar brawl, though the walker is hardly slowed by it. He rolls and manages to pin it in the mud for a moment, its decaying fingers yanking on his hair, and he rolls again, throwing it as hard as he can away from him. He leaps to his feet just as the walker does, and he wields a thick tree branch like a baseball bat; he cracks the walker with it and it falls, and Daryl straddles it before it can rise again. He bashes the ugly bastard's skull in repeatedly with the branch, breaking its head open and pulverizing the brain.

He rolls away onto his back when the walker is dead, preparing to take on the second geek that lumbers in his direction. Daryl doesn't let himself think about it as he grips the arrow jutting out of his side and  _pulls_ —it comes out with the nasty sound of tearing flesh. He clenches it between his teeth and struggles to draw his crossbow (even with both hands it's a difficult task in his state) as the second walker staggers closer. It's practically right on top of him when he falls back, takes aim, and fires. The bolt goes through the walker's head and it collapses in a rotting heap.

He doesn't let himself rest. With the arrow out of his side, he sheds the sleeveless remnants of his shirt, bundles it up, and fastens it tightly to his wound.

"Son of a bitch was right," he mutters. No surprise there—hallucination or not, Merle has an annoying habit of always being right.

Daryl gets to work. He takes a seat on the fallen tree and cleans his hunting knife as best he can in the river water before cutting into the squirrel he'd killed earlier. He prefers his meat cooked, but right now that's a luxury he can't afford and he needs his strength. He plucks out the meat, bloody and cold, and eats it raw. When he finished, he snatches up Sophia's doll and shoves it under his belt before stealing one of the walkers' shoelaces from one boot. Daryl cuts the ears off the walkers and strings them along the shoelace and fashions it into a trophy necklace around his throat.

He always did admire a warrior's tradition.

The second attempt at climbing the incline seems less daunting, but once he actually gets to doing it, it proves just as difficult and painful. He pants and chokes back agonized sobs as he struggles to haul himself further up. The heat and the effort and his battered body make his head swim. The screech of a bird high overhead is absurdly distracting, and he finds himself staring stupidly at the sky for a long moment.

"Please! Don't feed the birds!" Fuckin'  _Merle._ Daryl looks up at the edge of the cliff, where he's trying to reach, and his brother leers down at him. Daryl knows he's not real, but he can't help but look away, somewhat ashamed.

Merle cackles, "What's the matter, Darlina? That all you got in you?" Daryl pulls himself up, a muffled scream hissing through his teeth. "Throw away that purse and climb!"

Daryl throws an irritated look over his shoulder at Merle briefly. "I liked you better when you was missin'."

"Now come on, don't be like that!" Merle laughs. "I'm on your side!"

"Yeah?" Daryl huffs, scrabbling for something sturdier to hang onto. "Since when?"

"Hell, since the day you were born, baby brother. Somebody had to look after your worthless ass."

"You never took care of me," Daryl spits, hanging onto a vine and testing its hold. "Talk a big game, but you was never there! Hell, you ain't here now!" He gasps for breath, dizzy. "Some things never change."

"I tell you what," Merle says nonchalantly, "I'm as real as your chupacabra!"

"I know what I saw," Daryl insists. He drags himself a bit higher up on the cliff.

"Yeah, and I'm sure them 'shrooms you ate had nothin' to do with it, right?" Merle smirks down at him, condescending as ever.

Daryl glowers up at him and shouts, "You best shut the hell up!"

"Or  _whaaaat?_ " Merle retorts theatrically, like Daryl's a stupid little kid, always knowing best how to get under his skin. "You gon' come up here and shut my mouth for me? Well, come on and do it, then, if you think you're man enough." He guffaws obnoxiously, and Daryl hauls himself up further, propelled by fury.

"Hey, kick off them damn high heels and climb, son!" he orders, then laughs loudly again, pleased with himself. Daryl splutters, spitting dirt and leaves from his dry mouth and crying out, glowering at his brother and dragging himself closer to the top so he can beat his ugly face in.

"You know what, if I were you, I'd take a pause for the cause, brother," Merle suggests. "'Cause I just don't think you gon' make it to the top."

But Daryl has a tight grip on a sapling that lets him pull himself further, and Merle crouches with his hand outstretched, urging Daryl closer like he would a dog.

"Come on, come on, little brother." A wide grins splits his face as he cackles unpleasantly. "Grab your friend  _Rick's_ hand."

Daryl claws at him and his fingers find flat, horizontal ground. He's at the top. He's at the top of the cliff. He blinks cluelessly for a moment, then drags himself up, up, up—and he stands on sturdy land. His hallucination is nowhere in sight.

"Yeah, you better run!" he hollers ridiculously into the trees, just because it makes him feel better.

And off he staggers through the woods, aiming for the farm. He's disoriented but judging by the sunlight he'd guess it's sometime in the late afternoon when he finally stumbles out of the thicket and into the open grass of Hershel's property. He can see the RV from here. People are running at him. Four of them, T-Dog, Glenn, Shane, and Rick come to meet him. Rick is at the front, holding him at gunpoint. Daryl sways on his feet, unimpressed.

"Is that Daryl?" Glenn asks nervously, and Daryl stomps weakly forward.

"'S the third time you've pointed that thing at my head!" he snaps. The group sags in relief when he speaks, proving himself not to be walker. "You gonna pull the trigger or what?" Rick lowers his gun, but not a second later a gunshot cracks through the air, and a white hot punch in the head knocks Daryl to the ground.

" _NO!_ " Rick screams in the direction of the shot, running to Daryl's aid. " _NO, NO!_ "

Daryl lies dazed in the grass, bleeding from a burning wound on the side of his head, and he feels hands on him—Shane grabbing his wrist to pull his hand away from the wound and tugging on him arm while Rick wraps his arms around him and helps Shane haul Daryl upright.

"I was  _kidding_ ," Daryl complains, his face squashed against Rick's shoulder until the sheriff and Shane pull his arms around their shoulders, holding him between them. His head lolls forward into Rick's neck as they start to drag him to the house, and he blacks out.

They let him rest for a bit even after he wakes up inside the farmhouse on the first real bed he's slept in since before the world went to shit before asking him about Sophia's doll. He lies on his side as Hershel sits next to him and stitches up the wound from his arrow, and Rick kneels next to the bed on his other side as they pore over the map of the surrounding areas.

"I found it washed up on a creek bed right there," Daryl says, pointing at the spot on the map. "She musta dropped it crossin' it somewhere."

"Cuts the grid almost in half," Rick says, looking over at Shane who sits against the wall.

"Yeah, you're  _welcome_ ," Daryl grouches, wincing and peering at what Hershel is doing.

"How's he lookin'?" Rick asks Hershel.

"I had no idea we'd be goin' through the antibiotics so quickly," Hershel says curtly, cutting the thread on Daryl's stitches. "Any idea what happened to my horse?"

"Yeah, the one that almost killed me?" Daryl says sourly. "If it's smart, it left the country."

Hershel washes his hands in a small tub of water situated in front of the vanity mirror. "We call that one Nelly. As in Nervous Nelly. I could've told you she'd throw you if you'd bothered to ask." He goes over to Rick and says pointedly, "It's a wonder you people have survived this long."

Rick leaves him alone with Herhsel, who finished cleaning him up and dresses the wound on his head, then leaves him alone to give him some privacy and let him have some more much-needed rest. In the kitchen he hears Carol and others bustling around cooking dinner, and the aroma wafts into the bedroom. It smells amazing and Daryl's stomach cramps hungrily, but he has no appetite. The bed is warm and comfortable and clean, but he doesn't fall asleep. He rolls over when the bedroom door opens, and when he sees that it's Carol, he covers himself up with the sheets. He has no desire for a woman who was regularly beaten by her husband to see his own scars left by his father.

"How're you feelin'?" Carol asks softly.

"'Bout as good as I look," he mumbles, rolling over again, putting his back to her as she places a tray of food on the bedside table.

"I brought you some dinner," she tells him. He twists a bit to look at it. "You must be starving."

She looks at him for a moment, then comes closer and leans down. Daryl flinches away, expecting a slap, but instead Carol kisses him lightly on the temple and straightens up. He stares at her incredulously for a second. No one's ever given him anything remotely resembling a kiss in his life.

When he finds his voice, it's just to mutter, "Watch it, I got stitches."

"You need to know something," Carol says quietly. Daryl peeks over his shoulder at her. "You did more for my little girl today than her own daddy ever did in his whole life."

Daryl falters, then grumbles, "I didn't do anything Rick or Shane wouldn't've done."

"I know. You're every bit as good as them." Her voice goes quieter. "Every bit." She leaves the room then and gently shuts the door. Daryl brings the blanket up to his shoulder, hunkering down and staring at the wall.


End file.
